


October Tales

by burn_me_down



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Everyone, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burn_me_down/pseuds/burn_me_down
Summary: A series of one-shots written for Whumptober 2019 prompts. Chapter 8: “Jason just wants to sleep, but the rain keeps dripping on his face.” Written for prompts #11 Stitches & #16 Pinned Down.





	1. Come and Save Me From It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been struggling to figure out the first chapter of my originally planned next story, so instead I’m going to do some short-ish Whumptober one-shots. First up is a Clay-focused one (written for prompts #21 Laced Drink & #31 Embrace), but I’ll try to do at least one for every team member, and maybe a few other characters as well, depending on how it goes.

Clay is bored, and his tea tastes terrible.

He’s currently pretending to read a book while occupying a table in a quiet cafe. Mandy felt certain it would be the perfect location from which to eavesdrop on a meeting between their HVT and one of his local contacts, with the goal of figuring out where the HVT’s latest shipment of weapons is headed.

Only problem is, Clay’s been here for the better part of an hour, and he’s starting to feel conspicuous, and neither of the men in question have bothered to show up. And worst of all, this latest cup of tea is frickin’ _gross._ He even added sugar, which he doesn’t usually do, and it barely made a difference.

Right around the time he begins to consider just calling this a bust and heading back to base, his head suddenly starts to spin. Within seconds, his vision becomes so blurred he can’t make out the words on the pages of his book. His fingers go numb and the book slides from his hands, landing on the floor with a clatter.

Listing sideways in his chair, darkness eating at the corners of his vision, Clay tries to reach up to his ear to call for help. His arm won’t cooperate. He gets his mouth open, but his tongue has turned into a dead weight and he can’t make more than a faint slurred noise.

His stomach flips. He feels like he’s going to puke.

Numb and sick, he tumbles from his seat, but hands catch him before he can hit the floor. He has just enough distorted vision left to see the unfamiliar faces leaning over him and know that he’s fucked.

Then there’s nothing but dark for a while.

Clay comes back to awareness gradually. His head is pounding, and there’s an awful taste in his mouth that suggests he probably did throw up at some point. He’s lying on his side on a cold stone floor. Something pointy is digging uncomfortably into his ribs. The discomfort eventually spurs him to try to roll over, despite the dizziness and nausea, which is when he realizes he’s bound hand and foot and wearing nothing but his boxers.

The cafe was a trap. Freaking wonderful.

He levers his eyelids open, sees only blackness. Lies there for a while, listening to the slow drum of his heart, each beat sending a dull throb through his temples. After a while he gags up some stomach acid, which does not noticeably improve the disgusting taste in his mouth. Nor the stench of whatever godforsaken pitch-dark pit he’s being kept in.

Eventually, the nausea subsides a bit, enough for him to crawl shakily up to his knees and shuffle down his boxers so that he can piss into a corner. At least his hands are tied in front of him.

No one shows up to torture Clay, or execute him, or even so much as ask a polite question. No one brings him water or food, either. He loses track of time. Sleeps some, which helps with the headache, but when he wakes up his throat is painfully dry and the nausea has taken on the sharp-edged bite of gnawing hunger.

By the time someone finally shows up, Clay is starting to think he’s been forgotten, left to die of thirst in a filthy, reeking room.

When the door opens, the sudden light stabs straight into his eyes. By the time Clay recovers from the disorientation and sensory overload, there are three men holding him down while another forces a damp, vaguely sweet-smelling cloth over his mouth and nose.

Clay figures this is probably an excellent moment for a real-world demonstration of exactly how long a frogman can hold his breath.

He fakes unconsciousness. They don’t buy it. Finally, they get tired of waiting and just kick him repeatedly in the kidney until he gasps in a breath, at which point the world sharply falls away again.

The next time he wakes up, he’s even more disoriented. Cloth is tied over his eyes and jammed into his mouth, and the world is moving. There’s a crash, and he’s thrown violently to the side, slamming against something hard. Tires squeal. There are gunshots, and they don’t stop for a while. Hell of a firefight. Nothing he can do about it. All he can do is lie still and hope the bullets go somewhere else.

Everything hurts, his throat most of all. He struggles to breathe through the gag and the pain. Tries not to puke, because if he does he’ll choke on it.

There’s a shudder through the surface he’s lying on, the sound of doors being opened, and then a couple more shots, terrifyingly close.

Two thuds. Then silence.

Too miserable to give much of a shit either way, Clay waits to find out if he’s about to die.

And then a very familiar, Texas-accented voice yells, “He’s here! I’ve got Bravo Six!”

There are hands on him, pulling away the gag, lifting off the blindfold. The light is too bright; Clay slams his eyes closed. Someone cuts his bonds, but he doesn’t know what to do with his hands once they’re free. Can’t really feel them anyway.

Breathing hurts and is harder than it should be. He can’t stop shaking and doesn’t even know why.

Sonny lifts him and holds him upright. It helps a little. Trent shows up from somewhere, checking Clay’s pulse, combing through his hair to search for head injuries. Even with his eyes closed, Clay would know those hands anywhere.

“You’re good, okay?” Sonny keeps saying, his arm steady around Clay’s shoulders, holding him up so he can breathe. “We’ve got you now, and we’re gonna get you out of here, and you’re gonna be just fine.”

Everything hurts, but there’s still air, and he’s safe now. He just has to keep going. One breath at a time. He leans into Sonny, and Sonny pulls him in close, chin resting gently atop Clay’s hair.

When it’s time to move, Sonny and Ray sling their arms around him, one from each side, and lift him up. His knees buckle when his feet hit the ground, but his brothers hold him up from falling, and he breathes and takes one unsteady step and then another.

Together, they find their way home.


	2. Be Left Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a Brock-focused one, written for prompts #26 Abandoned & #29 Numb.

In the blazing midday heat, the abandoned homestead sits utterly, eerily silent.

Brock remembers the night being cold, or at least he thinks he does, but that feels like a long time ago. Now there’s just heat and dust and quiet, and the hollow cry of wind around broken railings and through blasted-open doorways.

Cerberus isn’t here. Brock looked for him, best he could manage while dragging his bad leg, and couldn’t find him anywhere.

Something went wrong, back there in the chill of the night. He remembers that. He remembers a bright bloom of fire, and falling, and then a sharp spear of pain through his hip that left dull, throbbing numbness in its wake.

Something went wrong. Cerberus was here, but now he isn’t.

Brock is pretty sure he shouldn’t let himself dwell on that too much. He needs to be able to focus on surviving.

His thoughts are scattered, constantly flitting away like startled butterflies. He tries to gather them, to make himself focus: What’s his current situation? What does he need? What does he have to work with?

Current situation is that he’s in the desert. It’s hot. There’s no one else here. He remembers fighting, feels certain there were enemies and allies, gunfire and flame, but now there’s no one and nothing. Just him.

What does he need? Water. Medical care, probably. A way to go home.

Resources? There’s water left in his canteen, but not much. Should probably be a well or cistern around here somewhere; he’ll need to find it if someone doesn’t come for him soon.

Is anyone even coming? Is there anyone left to return for him?

He doesn’t think the rest of Bravo was here. His memories are a little tangled up ever since the explosion and the fall, but he’s pretty sure he was away from them for some reason; that he and Cerb got lent out somewhere, maybe to another team, before all of this happened.

Brock can’t understand why they would have left him, but they must have. He found some bodies, but none were familiar, and none dressed in U.S. gear to match his own.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Reality is that he’s alone now.

He has tried his radio, but never gets a response, so it must be either broken or dead. Outside of that, he’s at a loss. There’s a road, sort of, but it disappears into empty desert, no shade or shelter for as far as the eye can see. In his current condition, barely able to put any weight on his bum leg, he’d never make it to whatever is at the other end of that road.

So, no clear way to increase his odds of rescue right now. That just leaves survival. Trying to stay healthy enough to still be here when, or if, someone gets around to finding him.

In the shade of an outbuilding, Brock checks himself over. He’s bruised to hell and bleeding sluggishly from half a dozen scrapes, but there doesn’t appear to be any serious blood loss to contend with - at least not externally. Worst injury seems to be his leg. Not sure exactly what it is; maybe a broken hip, the thought of which makes him feel about 90 years old.

Judging by the headache and blurred memories and the way time keeps turning fluid and skipping, there’s something off with his head too. Probably a concussion. Hopefully nothing worse.

Brock finishes the water in his canteen and then zones out for a while. Next thing he knows, the sun is setting, harsh heat bleeding away to mild, brief twilight. Seems like as good a time as any to go looking for that well or cistern he’ll be needing.

He’s halfway across the courtyard when he hears the vehicles.

A glance out at the road tells him they probably don’t belong to anybody he’d like to meet up with at the moment.

Brock briefly forgets about his leg, nearly faceplants trying to get into cover, manages to pull himself together enough to scramble into a lean-to full of boxes and bags. He crawls all the way to the back, wedging himself into the narrow space behind a stack of what feel and smell like flour sacks.

His heart pounds, pulse escalating when he hears the voices start yelling back and forth. Not in English.

Clay would know the language. Would be able to translate what they’re saying.

Trent would know how bad Brock’s head injury is, and what to do about his leg.

God, he misses his brothers so much. Crammed into a hiding place that feels suffocatingly like a cage, hurting and alone, all he wants is for them to show up in a blaze of glory like a legion of avenging angels.

They don’t.

Brock ends up spending the night in the lean-to. The cramped position is agonizing; it causes the dull throb in his leg to escalate to teeth-gritting agony. He’s so exhausted that he keeps drifting off anyway, jolting back to awareness whenever there are voices or footsteps nearby.

He has his Glock. No idea what happened to his HK416. If they find him, he hasn’t got a chance in hell, but he’ll go down fighting.

No one ever comes inside the lean-to. The night grows cold. Brock shivers, sick from the pain in his leg and head, and prays to go home. He wants his brothers. His hammock. His dog.

_Don’t think about it. Don’t._

Dawn comes. Chill turns back to heat, the enclosed space rapidly growing stifling from the sun beating down on its roof. As the morning wears on, Brock sweats and grows desperately thirsty, mouth so dry he can’t even swallow.

If he stays here, he’s going to die slowly from dehydration and heat stroke.

If he leaves, he’s going to get shot.

Brock is just debating the merits of choosing the quick end, going out in a blaze of glory, when the vehicles start up again and pull away.

After the noise of the engines dies into the distance, the world outside the lean-to goes quiet.

Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s safe - someone could have stayed behind - but Brock is going to have to risk it. No other choice.

Moving is harder than he thought it was going to be. There’s no strength left in his muscles, and when he pulls himself out from the cramped space, his injured hip and thigh spasm with cramps so agonizing that he has to bite down on his knuckles to keep from screaming.

He tries to stand, to pull himself up to balance on his good leg, but can’t. Crawling it is.

This would be a hell of a lot easier if he had any idea where the water source is in this place. He pretty much just has to make a guess.

Outside, the sunlight is blinding. The wind picks up, blowing sand into Brock’s eyes. He makes it across the courtyard and into a narrow strip of shade cast by an overhang, and then his arms give out and he collapses.

Brock gives himself a minute to breathe, and then he lifts his head and tries to get moving again. His arms tremble. Nothing else happens. He doesn’t realize his head is falling until his cheekbone bounces off the ground.

He just has to rest here. Just... just for a minute.

(He isn’t getting back up. Not this time.)

Brock is too dehydrated for tears. The small sob that escapes him is as dry as old bone.

He tried to wait. He hopes his brothers know that. That he tried to wait for them.

Vision blurring out, he drifts.

When he hears the barking, he doesn’t think it’s real at first. Thinks he must be dead, or hallucinating while he dies.

But it grows louder and closer, and then transforms into eager whining and is joined by familiar voices.

There are hands then, one pair checking him over with practiced efficiency, the other set cupping his head. Brock forces open sand-crusted eyelashes to find Clay leaning down, face tight with worry. Behind him, Trent is taking vitals, checking limbs, palpating Brock’s abdomen to check for internal injuries. Brock is floating. He can hardly feel any of it.

“Hey,” Clay says, patting Brock’s cheek. His voice is gentle. “Stay with us, okay?”

“Water,” Brock croaks, almost soundlessly. Clay must hear him, because he looks to Trent for permission, then carefully lifts Brock’s head and trickles water into his mouth, a scant sip at a time.

There’s a lot of conversation. Brock can’t really keep track of any of it. He must lose some time, because next thing he knows he’s blinking awake in the back of a moving van, staring up at Trent and Sonny’s faces. Cerberus’s fur is pressed up against Brock’s arm, and while he doesn’t exactly need the extra warmth right now, it’s still one of the best things he’s ever felt.

He thought Cerb was gone. That that explosion had...

“Hey,” Sonny says softly. “Are you with us, buddy?”

Brock manages to focus on him. Nods. His head is fuzzy and all the pain is dull and distant, which probably means morphine. There’s the tug of an IV in his arm, which might help explain why he no longer feels quite so desiccated.

“You remember what happened?” Sonny asks, his eyebrows drawing together when Brock shakes his head. Quinn exchanges quick glances with Trent, then clears his throat and says, “Well, we loaned you and the hair missile out to local military for what was supposed to be a walk in the park, which I can guarantee you is a mistake we will not be making ever again.”

That answers the question of who was there with him. Not Bravo; not any other DEVGRU team either. It makes Brock feel a little better to know that it wasn’t his brothers who left him behind. Not much, but a little.

“Anyhow,” Sonny continues, “turns out the locals couldn’t find their own collective ass with a map, a compass and a GPS. They came back with the dog but not you. First they claimed you’d been killed in an explosion and there hadn’t been time to recover your body. After me and Jason asked real polite-like, they admitted they didn’t actually know what happened to you because they were too busy saving their own cowardly hides. After that, we had to try to figure out exactly where the hell they’d left you, which wasn’t easy, because again: Ass. Map. Compass. GPS.”

“I think he gets it, Sonny,” Clay pipes up from somewhere.

“Shut up, Farrah Fawcett. Anyway, we finally got a location out of one of the idiots, and we got there quick as we could.” Sonny trails off, staring down at his hands, and clears his throat again. “Uh, we’re real sorry it took so goddamn long. And that it happened at all. Never should have. Never will again.”

“It’s okay,” Brock breathes, and he means it. “Y’all found me. ’S what matters.”

They came for him, and he’s safe. Not alone. Not abandoned.

He falls asleep with his fingers tangled in Cerberus’s fur, and everything is okay.


	3. Down From Your Tower on High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, here’s another Clay one. I’m sorry! I just really like beating up on him! I’ll get to the rest of the team too, I promise. This one was written for #1 Shaky Hands, #2 Explosion, #10 Unconscious & #12 “Don’t Move.”

Clay goes high. That’s what he does.

When Jason gives the order, he doesn’t hesitate. He picks the best available vantage point, the balcony of a small wooden church up and across from their target location, and gets his ass inside and up the stairs to the top as fast as he can.

Setting up at the balcony window, Clay clears a path to the front door of the building the rest of Bravo is about to breach. Inside, they hope to find and rescue a small group of American college students who are being held for ransom by a local cartel.

While the guys are in that building, they need to be able to focus on taking out the guards, freeing the kids, and getting them ready to move. It’s Clay’s job to make sure they won’t get blindsided by reinforcements from outside. From his current position he can see both entrances, front and side. He’ll eliminate as many tangos as he can, and at least provide forewarning about any he isn’t able to take out.

The other members of Bravo are about halfway through freeing the students, who are thankfully all alive and ambulatory, when trouble arrives.

Clay handles the first wave of reinforcements, spots more coming, and gives the guys a heads-up that they need to pick up the pace and might be about to have some company.

He takes out a few more tangos. It doesn’t really occur to him that no one is watching the building he’s in. Not until it’s just a little too late.

There must be some sort of sound that tips him off; maybe a thud, or the creak of a door opening or closing. Whatever it is, it spurs him to glance down, which is the only thing that at least temporarily saves his life.

In the main room of the quiet church below, standing between the two rows of pews, a tango is pulling the pin on a grenade.

Clay manages to draw his Glock, pivot and fire just as the combatant cocks his arm back to make the throw.

The man goes down, his toss cut off halfway through. Instead of making it up onto the balcony with Clay, the grenade spins toward the bottom of the narrow wooden stairs.

Clay turns his body away, shielding his face and head. The blast shudders through the building, sets his ears ringing, and reduces the lower half of the staircase to kindling. Realizing he’s unharmed, Clay turns his attention back to the window, figuring he’ll find another way down. He refocuses on the scene below, covering Bravo as they come out with the kids, ensuring that their exit is as free of opposition as possible.

It’s the sound of crackling and the acrid smell of smoke that lets him know he maybe should have paid a little more attention to his own predicament.

By the time he lets himself turn to look back, the flames have swallowed a significant portion of the lower floor, and fire is spreading across the wall like spilled liquid. What little was left of the staircase is disappearing fast.

This church is a damn tinderbox.

Won’t be long before the smoke grows suffocating. Clay breaks out what was left of the balcony window and leans his upper body outside, gasping in a breath of mostly fresh air. Through the haze of smoke following him out the window, it’s tough to see much below. “Bravo One, you good?” He asks, managing to keep his voice mostly even.

_“We’re clear. Collapse your position, meet us at exfil.”_

God, he wishes he could follow that order.

“Little bit of a situation here. Building’s on fire. No way down.” As he says it, he glances toward the ground.

There is one way out of here. Clay just might not survive it.

The church is built on a steep hillside that falls away sharply at the front of the building, which is where the balcony’s two windows are located. That means the only available exit features one hell of a drop to the rocky soil below. 

He’s high enough up that the fall may result in fatal injuries but probably won’t kill him on impact. That would pretty much be the worst of both worlds: dying, and having to be present while it’s happening.

Still better than the alternative, though. Clay has a very strong opinion on the subject of being burned alive. That opinion is ‘nope.’

_“Bravo Six, say again?”_ Jason’s voice sounds tight and clipped.

Clay leans further out, hoists his legs up onto the windowsill. The heat behind him is searing; the smoke billowing out into the night air has grown darker and thicker, harder to escape. It sets his head spinning, his throat burning.

“In the church. Gonna have to jump.” His voice is hoarse, vision starting to darken at the edges. He pauses, wavers on the threshold, and can’t come up with a single thing to say to his team.

No more time. It’s jump now or go up in flames.

He pulls himself through the window and falls into the night.

-

At Spenser’s final words, Jason looks up the hill toward the church. The first thing he sees is the incandescent glow of the fire. The second is the dark shape tumbling from the window and plummeting silently to the ground below.

That’s one hell of a long fall. Too long.

“Bravo Six, come in,” he says evenly, and is answered by the silence he expected. “Bravo Six, report.”

No response.

He flashes forward to a vivid mental image of pulling out his phone and transferring Clay’s number into _Fallen,_ that folder full of lost brothers he never talks about. Sees himself putting the kid in a box, literally and metaphorically. Erasing him. Moving on.

No. They’re not there yet. Surviving a fall, or not, has a lot to do with exactly where and how you land. There’s a solid chance Spenser is still alive.

Jason hesitates. There’s still the possibility of further cartel contact before reaching exfil, but no way can he bring himself to leave Clay behind, alone, injured and maybe dying.

He makes a decision. “Trent, with me. Everybody else, get these kids to exfil.”

Full Metal is running with them for this mission, which helps. Splitting up the team still isn’t ideal, but having four shooters to escort the hostages is better than having three.

The hill is steep, but the church isn’t all that far away. Doesn’t take them long to find Spenser, crumpled in the dirt, motionless.

From the position Clay is in, it looks like he landed on his feet and then rolled to the side. Might have had enough awareness left when he hit to try to mitigate the impact, but he’s not responding now.

Trent drops to a crouch beside Bravo Six, wearing that air of focused calm he gets when things are very urgent. After a couple seconds that feel like eternity, he reports, “Strong pulse. He’s breathing, but it’s labored. Maybe smoke inhalation.”

Jason keeps his rifle up, scanning the dark, trying to make sure they don’t get caught off guard. The news that Clay is alive sparks warmth in his chest that rivals the heat of the burning church behind them, but he doesn’t let himself linger on it. If he loses focus right now, they could still all end up dead.

“Can we move him?” he asks.

“Without a cervical collar and spinal board? Only as an absolute last resort. Spine injury is likely. We need a medical team.”

Jason calls it in to HAVOC, briefly explaining the situation and requesting a medevac. Helo won’t be able to land nearby due to the terrain, but could maybe lift Spenser out from here once he’s been immobilized for transport.

Within seconds, Blackburn responds in the affirmative.

This mission was supposed to be low profile, quick in and out, drawing as little attention as possible. With things already off the rails and Clay’s life on the line, Eric doesn’t hesitate to abandon that goal in favor of saving Bravo Six. Just one of the reasons his men trust him so much.

While they’re waiting for the helo, Jason stays on guard while Trent does what he can from a medical standpoint. He reports that both of Spenser’s legs are broken, a couple of his ribs might be cracked, and he’s probably got a head injury. Jason guessed that last part. He knows enough about brain trauma to be aware that extended loss of consciousness is usually a pretty bad sign.

Apparently Trent picks up on Jason’s line of thought, because he’s a goddamn mind reader. Quietly, he offers, “Pupils look good. Unconsciousness could be partly from the smoke inhalation.”

As if on cue, Spenser makes a faint noise, almost a whimper. Any relief Jason feels at that disappears pretty quick, because then the kid starts trying to move.

“Clay! Hey, no, no! Stay still.” Trent grips Spenser’s shoulders, trying to keep him stationary without worsening any injuries. Jason lowers his rifle and crouches to help, holding Clay’s hips in place to prevent him from trying to shift or roll over.

Trent keeps talking, his tone somehow both soothing and firm. “I know it hurts, man, but it’s really important that you don’t move. We got you, okay? We’re gonna get you out of here. Just don’t move. Don’t move.”

Apparently the words get through, because Clay goes still. Firelight glints off his open eyes. He draws a few hoarse, ragged breaths. It looks like his lips are trying to form words, but he must not have any voice left. After a few seconds, his eyes slide closed and he twitches his right hand just a little, like he’s trying to reach out for something.

Jason takes the kid’s hand and squeezes it. Fingers trembling, Clay squeezes back, his grip surprisingly strong.

After that, it isn’t long until the medevac arrives and Jason has to turn loose and move back so the medical team can work. They rapidly immobilize Clay, who lets out a strangled, whispery yell when they move his broken legs, and then he’s gone and the helo is disappearing into the night.

Jason and Trent haul ass to exfil, where they find the rest of the team waiting with the students. Everybody’s safe. No further contact, no casualties. Nobody hurt but Clay.

They’re back home by the time any real news arrives. In addition to the broken legs, cracked ribs and smoke inhalation, Spenser has a moderate concussion and two fractured vertebrae. Thanks to Trent and that medevac, there doesn’t appear to be any nerve or spinal cord damage. His recovery process will be long and hellish, but he’s predicted to make a full one. Eventually.

Hands shaking a little, Jason pulls out his phone. He stares at Clay’s number. He doesn’t tap _Edit._ Not today.

Hopefully not ever.


	4. Remember That Old Frio River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the Sonny chapter! Written for prompts #7 Isolation, #9 Shackles & #28 Beaten.

Sonny is losing track of which woman’s name goes with which city.

He’s working his way back through his entire mental catalog of George Strait songs for the third time, or is it the fourth, and has made it to ‘All My Exes Live in Texas,’ but his focus is starting to wander. His remaining vision is increasingly blurry and distorted, and he’s exhausted, and his ribs hurt like he’s getting stabbed in the side every time he breathes or moves.

Doesn’t matter. If any of the assholes who captured him are close enough to hear, he’s gonna make them wish God never gave them eardrums.

Allison! That’s it. “Allison’s in Galveston,” he sings, or rather hollers in a hoarse, raspy voice without much of anything resembling a tune to it. He pauses, can’t remember the next line, so just goes ahead and moves on to Dimples who now lives in Temple.

But then he gets to “I remember that old Frio River where I learned to swim,” and suddenly his pitiful voice dies away to nothing and his eyes start to sting.

Damn, what he wouldn’t give to be in that cool blue-green water right now, floating through Garner with a beer in his hand, just watching the cypress trees slide by.

He isn’t sure exactly how long he’s been here. At least a couple days, he thinks, which is plenty long enough to have been the guest of honor in several rounds of ‘Beat the Shit out of the American.’

They’ve asked him a lot of questions, and he hasn’t one time refused to talk. That’s Clay’s thing. Stupid kid would probably go all silent and tense-jawed and heroic, wearing that dumb little smirk he gets when he’s being stubborn. Maybe he’d make a few sarcastic quips, but he’d likely mostly just refuse to say anything at all.

Not Sonny. If there’s one thing Sonny Quinn has always known how to do, it’s talk. Just ask his poor mama. According to her, he could talk the hind leg off a mule before his second birthday.

So yeah, he talks. Just not about anything they actually _want_ him to talk about.

He talks about the finer points of making a good brisket, and the difference between a barbecue and a cookout. He goes on an extended rant about why anybody who chooses to swim in the ocean _for fun_ is completely insane, especially if they’re anywhere near Japan or Australia (three words: blue-ringed octopus). He lists off his 40 least favorite things about jungles.

These idiots are apparently no more creative than they are intelligent, because they just beat on him some more, then finally get tired of it and dump him back into the room where they’re keeping him shackled and alone.

The accommodations are as shitty as the company. These asshats don’t even have themselves a half-decent stone or brick or adobe building, something that might stay a little cooler during the heat of the day. Nope, they’re hanging out in a crappy, creaky wooden shack with gaps between the graying, warped, weathered boards. It’s hotter than hell in the day and overly chilly at night, and Sonny isn’t impressed. Zero stars. Would not stay again.

One other little note: these morons probably ought to have checked to make sure there weren’t any loose nails in the room where they’re keeping their very valuable prisoner.

That’s the other reason Sonny is singing. To try to make sure nobody picks up on the faint clicking and clanking noises he’s making while trying to pick the lock on his shackles.

He’s been at it for a good long while now. It ain’t as easy as it looks on TV, that’s for damn sure.

Sonny keeps at it, singing until his voice finally plumb gives out and he has to rest and take a few sips of the tepid water they gave him. It’s late evening, which means it’s nearing that brief pleasant period when it’s no longer too hot and not yet too cold, and he should probably try to sleep while he can. He’s beat all to hell - one eye swollen shut, busted ribs, probably a concussion - and needs all the strength he can get if he’s ever gonna make it out of here.

The guys will come for him. He knows they will. Just would be nice to be able to speed up the timetable; maybe make himself a little easier to find. If he hangs out here for too long, he has the feeling things will get even less pleasant than they already are.

Sonny hides the nail and naps until the room starts to grow chilly, and then he wakes up shivering and gets back to work.

Finally, goddamn _finally,_ he manages to get the shackles off. Then he stops, trying to figure out exactly what he should do now.

They ain’t been feeding him much, but there’s an armed guard who comes in a couple times a day to bring more stale, lukewarm water. Most of the time he does so alone, apparently trusting that the banged-up, shackled prisoner doesn’t pose much of a threat right now. Sonny would very much like to disabuse him of that notion.

Killing the man and and getting his hands on the AK slung across his back? Short of rescue, it’s the best chance Sonny has of getting out of here alive. Or at least going down fighting, which he would damn sure prefer to getting tortured to death.

Sonny hides behind the door, waiting, trying to decide whether he should go for the eye or the neck. The nail is better than nothing, but not as good as a knife. Or a gun. Damn, he misses his Glock right now.

Hell with it. He’ll just see how it plays out. Take whatever opportunity presents itself. Fight like his life depends on it, because it does.

The guard swings the door open and freezes in consternation at the sight of the empty room. That’s all Sonny needs.

The fight is short and brutal and unfortunately loud. Sonny ends up stabbing the guard in the neck a bunch of times, knocking him down and slamming his head against the floor with all the force he can muster, and then wrestling the AK away while the man lies gurgling on his own blood.

He gets his hands on the gun just in time. A couple more guys arrive, drawn by the commotion. Sonny shoots them, then takes their guns and ammunition as well. He has no way of knowing how many others might be lurking outside. Good chance he’s about to be overrun. If so, he’s gonna give them one hell of a fight.

Just as he stiffly straightens back up from arming himself, he starts hearing gunfire from outside.

Huh.

Not exactly what he expected. Figured they’d all be drawn in here by the shooting, but it sounds like they’ve got problems of their own to worry about.

There’s a little distance between Sonny and the firefight, enough that he feels confident he probably won’t get caught in a crossfire upon stepping outside, so he slips out into the night. There’s enough moonlight to get his bearings. This shack is one of about half a dozen all clustered together. The fighting seems to be coming from the eastern perimeter, and all the combatants must have headed that way, because things around Sonny are quiet.

With an internal shrug, he limps cautiously in the direction of the gunfire. Might be a little banged up - okay, a lot - but he never was one to back down from a fight.

Sonny silently skirts around the periphery of the battle, figuring it’s probably a good idea to get eyes on whoever’s engaging these assholes. He knows who he’d like for it to be, but refuses to let himself assume that’s who it is.

He nears the fighting just in time to see a man in full tactical gear getting blindsided and tackled to the ground by one of the insurgents.

The resulting startled yelp is incredibly familiar.

Well, god damn.

The insurgent pulls a knife. Before the man on the ground has a chance to even try to react, Sonny has already shot his assailant. Soon as the asshole goes down, Sonny steps out of cover and calls softly, “Hey, Blondie.”

Clay rolls the dead insurgent off him and sits up. _“Sonny?”_ There’s disbelief thick in his voice.

“Great job on the rescue, Tinker Bell,” Sonny says. He takes a step forward, his knees try to buckle, and suddenly Clay is there, arm slung around him, warm and real and smelling like sweat and dirt and gunpowder. Sonny’s eyes sting again, and there’s a sudden lump in his throat.

“Hey,” Clay says softly. “Hey, it’s okay. I got you.”

“I know you do.” Sonny’s voice sounds all weird and choked, and he’s so tired he can barely hold his head up, and his entire body is one big throb of pain. Now that he’s sort of semi-safe, or at least no longer alone, it’s like everything is hitting him all at once.

Before he lets himself zone out, there’s one last very important thing he absolutely has to say.

“You know that I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?”

Clay just laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go home.”


	5. In That Treetop Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the Ray chapter, written for #3 Delirium & #20 Trembling. Title from _Song for Zula_ by Phosphorescent.

When Ray opens his eyes, the first thing that comes into focus is the ground. It’s a lot farther away than it should be.

For a dizzying, terrifying instant he thinks he’s falling, and his heart rate escalates until his foggy brain gets with it enough to realize that the expanse of dirt and plants and fallen leaves below him is not growing any closer.

Gradually, other details start to filter into his awareness. He’s shivering and somehow feels both too warm and too cold at the same time. His left forearm is a hot mass of pain. His head is hanging down, chin against his chest, but his body is propped upright, held in place by what feels like ropes or straps of some kind. His right side is pressed against something solid, rough and textured.

After a minute, Ray musters enough strength to turn his head to the side and get a better look at exactly where he is.

Bark, leaves, branches.

For unknown reasons, he’s currently strapped into the upper half of a huge spreading tree. Some sort of oak, probably.

A gust of cool wind, rich with the scent of rain, intensifies Ray’s trembling. He glances around, searching for clues as to how he got here. Wracks his scrambled mind for recent memories, but comes up empty.

Finally, reluctantly, he makes himself look down at his left arm, the source of the searing pain that’s causing a weird sort of nausea he can feel throughout his entire body.

Ray’s forearm is wrapped in a thick layer of gauze that’s stained a crusty yellowish-red with what looks like a mix of blood and pus. Judging by that, the shivering and the confusion, he’s guessing he’s got a pretty nasty infection.

How did he get that wound in the first place, and why has he been stranded out here long enough for it to get so badly infected? Where even _is_ ‘here’? Where the hell is everyone else?

Ray wracks his brain, but there’s nothing. He isn’t even sure what’s the last thing he _does_ remember.

The harder he tries to think, the more his head hurts and the world starts to take on a weird fevered shimmer. His stomach turns. He leans his head against the tree, closes his eyes, and tries to get everything to stop spinning.

The wind dies down, and a few scattered raindrops patter onto the thick canopy of oak leaves overhead. It’s early evening, the light just starting to gentle toward twilight. Ray drifts out and doesn’t rouse again until a second band of rain passes over, heavier this time. The splash of cold water against burning-hot skin startles Ray awake. Hard to tell with the clouds, but he thinks it must be nearing sunset now.

He glances down at the securely fastened line that’s holding him in place against the tree. Isn’t sure he even has the strength to untie it, let alone climb down without falling. Did someone leave him here? Did he do this himself, only to forget he had?

Just as he’s starting to feel panicky, Ray hears a rustle of motion from below, then the faint scrape of fabric against bark. After a minute, Jason comes into view, carefully pulling himself up from one branch to the next. He’s moving stiffly like he’s sore, but doesn’t seem too badly injured.

Jason looks surprised, and relieved, when he sees that Ray’s eyes are open. “Hey,” he whispers. “You with me?”

Ray starts to nod, but the world lurches sickeningly as soon as he moves his head, so instead he swallows thickly and croaks back, “Yeah.”

His voice is weak, more slurred than he expected. He’s having trouble getting his eyes to focus. Feels like his consciousness has been set adrift like a helium balloon and is floating somewhere over the treetops.

Jason moves around the tree trunk until he’s sitting next to Ray in the wide fork where two massive branches meet. “You thirsty?” He asks softly. “I found some water.”

Come to think of it, Ray’s mouth is dry as hell. Jason lifts the canteen to his mouth, helps him take a few careful sips.

His throat marginally less raw now, Ray whispers, “Where… why…” He trails off, not even sure which of the many possible questions he is trying to ask.

“Still don’t remember, huh?”

“Nope.”

Jason leans his head back against the branch behind him and sighs deeply. “Mission went sideways. You got contacted, knifed in the arm. Probably wouldn’t have been a big deal if we could have made it to exfil, but we couldn’t. Got cut off. Whole area’s overrun with rebels now.”

Ray lets that sink into his sluggish brain. “How long?”

“Couple days.” Jason takes a sip of water.

Ray is a little afraid to ask, but he does so anyway. “Rest of the team?”

Jason sighs again. “Don’t know. Got separated. Hope they made it out, but…” He trails off, not sounding particularly optimistic.

Maybe they’re holed up somewhere, hiding like he and Jason are. Ray prays for that. He won’t believe the worst until there’s no other choice.

“Any contact with HAVOC?”

Jason shakes his head. “No comms.” A pause, then he adds, “They’ll send somebody for us. If they can.”

Ray doesn’t bother pointing out that that’s a pretty damn big ‘if’.

“Sleep if you can, man,” Jason tells him, patting his shoulder. “Gotta beat this damn infection. At least you’re coherent now. That’s a good sign.”

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

Ray passes out, spikes a fever at some point during the night. Forgets where he is, what’s happening. His addled brain is convinced that he was supposed to be watching Jameelah and RJ, and now it’s dark and he can’t find them, and they’re in danger, and Naima is going to be so mad, and-

Jason’s hand clamps over Ray’s mouth. Close to his ear, Hayes whispers sharply, _“Ray._ Listen to me. Your kids are safe. They’re with Naima. I will get you home to them, but you have to be _quiet,_ okay?”

Head pounding, heart racing like he’s been running for his life, Ray stares into the darkness and manages a nod.

He’s shivering and listless and his arm throbs relentlessly, but he falls back asleep anyway. This time he doesn’t dream. When he opens his eyes, it’s almost dawn and there’s a commotion off to the east, toward where the horizon is lit gold by the almost-risen sun.

At first he thinks he’s alone again, but then he hears faint rustling overhead and realizes Jason has climbed higher, trying to get eyes on whatever is happening. From the east comes yelling, a few shots, a pause, then steadier gunfire.

Jason scrambles back down, face a few shades paler. Quietly, he says, “It’s, uh, it’s Sonny and Clay. Doesn’t look like it’s going too well for them.”

Ray’s heart sinks into his gut. If the area is as overrun as Jason says, the noise will draw in more fighters. Unless their boys can wrap it up quick and haul ass, they haven’t got a chance in hell.

“Sonny’s down,” Jason adds. “Clay was trying to get him into cover. He looked pretty bad off too, though.”

Well, so much for their chances of hauling ass.

The nausea Ray feels now has little to do with the fever and infection.

The gunfire grows more sporadic. His teammates, his _friends,_ are probably about to die, and there’s not a thing Ray can do about it except sit here in this damn treetop and listen. Wait until silence falls, knowing what it means. The thought of it makes him feel like his skin is trying to crawl off his body.

Apparently Jason feels the same. He looks at Ray, hesitates, opens his mouth, closes it.

“Go,” Ray tells him.

He might be sick as hell, but he’s clear-headed enough to know what he’s saying. What the likely outcome of it will be.

Knows, too, that he can’t ask Jason Hayes to sit here and do nothing while his men are up against it, fighting for their lives not far away.

“I’ll be fine, man. Go.”

Jason nods. The final glance he gives Ray is brief, but it carries the weight of a decade’s worth of trust, friendship, battles fought side by side.

Anything he might say right now, they both already know. So Jason goes.

Ray hears, a few minutes later, when he joins the fight. The gunfire intensifies for a while... and then it stops.

After that, there’s nothing but silence.

The day wears on. Jason doesn’t come back. Ray tries not to think about it. He sips from the canteen, eats part of a protein bar, drifts, jolts back awake with tears on his face that he doesn’t remember crying.

It’s just before dusk when he spots Charlie Team below, fanned out across the forest floor, moving silently with guns up. Ray has to toss down his radio and his canteen to get their attention.

As Charlie’s medic climbs up the tree toward him, Ray closes his eyes and breathes.

He’s going home to his wife and babies. Like Jason promised he would.

He just isn’t sure his heart will be coming home with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ambiguity; it just felt like the truest ending for this one. I tried to leave enough hope so that readers can mentally add on a happy ending if they would like. :)


	6. Not a Victory March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Trent-focused and is based on prompts #4 Human Shield & #17 “Stay With Me.” Content warning: Injury and death of a child, and heavy angst. I was very mean to Trent in this one.

They make it less than halfway to the extraction point before everything goes to shit.

It isn’t supposed to be a particularly dangerous mission. Hell, Sonny bitches about it beforehand, claiming it’s a waste of their skills to be stuck babysitting the family of some brilliant nerd scientist who’s decided he wants to defect to the US. Especially when said family is being evacuated from a relatively safe location.

Predictably, Nate feels the need to express disagreement, and he and Sonny start gleefully sniping at each other about it, at which point Trent exchanges commiserating eye rolls with Brock. Their rookie dog handler might still be relatively new to the team, but he has already established himself as a man with half an ounce of common sense, which puts him ahead of... well, most of Trent’s other teammates, really.

The family they’ve been sent to protect consists of a wife, two teenage daughters, and a little boy who’s maybe 7 or 8 years old. The girls are transparently annoyed with the whole affair, upset that their father’s choices have so thoroughly upended their lives. The little guy, on the other hand, is wide-eyed with fascination over _everything._ With his limited English, he keeps trying to ask questions about their guns and gear and radios. It doesn’t even seem to occur to him to be frightened.

At least not until the ambush.

The boy is walking right next to Trent when the bullets start flying. Trent immediately spins and tackles the child to the ground, using his own armored body as a shield. Once the other members of Bravo start to return fire, there’s a break that allows Trent to scramble up, grab the boy, and pull him behind the cover of a boulder alongside the trail.

The child is drooping and listless, his eyes trying to slide closed. The whole front of his shirt is already soaked with blood.

“Shit,” Trent hisses quietly, scrambling to find the wound so he can try to stem the bleeding. He tries to push away the guilt so he can focus on his patient, but the questions claw at the back of his mind: How did this happen? Did he react a split second too late? Fail to fully shield the child?

Doesn’t matter, really. All that matters is the simple fact that he failed, and now a little boy is dying because of it.

There has to be something he can do. He has to be able to fix this.

The boy is placid and calm, blinking slowly into the middle distance. He doesn’t seem to feel the pain, not even when Trent puts pressure on the wound to try to control the too-rapid bleeding. The child’s vague, unfocused expression hits Trent like a dagger to the heart. He layers another wad of gauze over the bullet hole, leans on it harder, and says tightly, “Stay with me, okay? Come on, kid. Stay with me.”

The child doesn’t respond. His eyes slide closed.

“No.” Trent pats the boy’s face. For some reason his hands are starting to go numb, the strength ebbing from his fingers. A dark blur fogs the edges of his vision. He pushes it all away, chanting, “Come on. Stay. Please. Please.”

The little boy’s head falls to the side. His chest has gone still.

“Dammit! No!”

Trent lays the child down, tries to start CPR. His arms shake. There’s no strength left in them.

The boy is so small. His skin is already going cold.

A hand on Trent’s shoulder startles him; he jolts, scrabbling for his Glock. Nate steps back, putting his hands up non-threateningly, the worry clear in his expression. “Trent,” he says. Glances down to the motionless child, then back up to meet his teammate’s gaze. “Listen, man. I’m sorry, but he’s gone. Nothing you can do.”

Trent staggers, hand against the boulder to steady himself. He looks down, finally managing to detach himself from the situation enough to realize that Nate is right. The child never had a chance. He was dead the moment that bullet hit him.

Trent locks his knees to keep them from buckling. Swallows hard and tamps down the failure, the emotion, the yawning grief that threatens to eat away his lungs from the inside.

Not now. Put it in a box. Deal with it later. Or never. Never is good.

He doesn’t realize Nate is still talking until his teammate seems to materialize right in front of his face. Trent flinches. Nate’s eyebrows draw together. “Are you okay?”

Trent nods, scrubbing his hands against his chest to try to get some of the blood off. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

“Tangos are dead, and the rest of the family is okay,” Nate says. “We need you. The kid got hit.”

It takes a second for Trent’s scrambled mind to catch up to the fact that Nate doesn’t mean the innocent child who just died for no goddamn reason. He means _their_ kid. He means Brock.

The world does another sickening lurch. Trent’s reaction must show on his face, because Nate quickly steps forward to grab his arm. “Hey. It’s not bad, okay? Just a graze. But he could use a bandage so he doesn’t lose too much blood.”

Trent nods, relieved, some of the cold fear leaching out of his chest. He realizes that Nate is probably partly just trying to distract him by giving him something to do. Something to focus on that isn’t his own failure.

Nate kneels, wraps the little boy’s body in a blanket, and carefully lifts it into his arms. “Go on,” he says, voice soft and sad. “I’ll take him to his family.”

The mother and sisters. They don’t know yet that their world has shattered.

Trent nods again, blinks against the tears stinging the corners of his eyes, and pushes off from the boulder.

This time when his knees buckle, he doesn’t manage to catch himself. He goes down hard on the gravel, the rough landing stabbing a spike of cold pain through his side. Faintly he hears Nate yelling something, but the sound is distorted, like he’s underwater.

Trent blinks. When he opens his eyes again, Jason is leaning over him, face pale and worried. “...hear me?” He’s asking.

Trent licks his lips. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

“You took a bullet to the side, right below the armor. Think it’s just a through-and-through, but you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

That’s when the pieces finally slot together, and Trent squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a cracked, half-hysterical laugh that’s almost a sob.

The bullet went straight through him… and into the child he was shielding.

Just shitty, awful luck. That’s all it was.

“Hey!” Jason pats his face sharply. “Stay with me. Stay awake. You’re the medic here, so tell me what to do, okay?”

Trent is well aware that Jason Hayes has been operating long enough to know how to handle a simple through-and-through. Nonetheless, he blinks his eyes back open and plays along, mumbling about pressure, hemostatic dressing, transfusions if the blood loss is bad enough. Hopefully things won’t go that far. It would have been helpful if he’d realized he was injured a little sooner, but he’d been too focused on the sweet-faced little boy whose life was already over.

This one is gonna hurt for a while. And he doesn’t mean the bullet wound.

In the background, there’s crying, the soul-destroying wail of a bereaved mother. Trent closes his eyes, wishing Jason would just let him pass out so he doesn’t have to hear it.

Apparently he does fade out despite Jason’s best efforts, because he opens his eyes to find that the sun is a bit lower in the sky, and he’s been moved. His side is tightly bandaged, the bleeding seemingly under control. He’s lying on his back, swathed in blankets, feet propped up. There’s some pain, but it’s bearable.

When Trent glances around, the first person he sees is Brock. The kid is nearby, sitting up. He’s paler than usual and has his left leg stretched out in front of him, a few small spots of blood visible on the gauze wrapped around his calf.

“Hey,” Trent whispers.

Brock’s face immediately brightens. He scoots over closer, wincing a little when moving his leg, and reaches out to pat Trent’s shoulder. “Hey, welcome back. You scared us a little.”

“Sorry,” Trent mumbles half-heartedly, closing his eyes again.

Brock doesn’t move his hand from Trent’s shoulder. After a minute, he gives a gentle squeeze and says softly, “It wasn’t your fault.”

That’s another thing Trent has learned about their new kid: like a lot of very quiet people, he is sometimes way too damn perceptive for his own good.

“Yeah.” Trent exhales, imagining the emotion leaving his body along with the breath. Imagining himself blank, empty, full of nothing at all.

It isn’t working so well.

For all that he’s so often taciturn, Brock can be stubborner than his dog with a bone when there’s something he thinks needs to be said. “You did everything you could. Nearly died trying to save him. This is not on you. Okay?”

Trent swallows. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay.”

Brock pats him again. “We’re safe. Medevac will be here soon. You can rest if you need to.”

Maybe that is what he needs right now. To just let go for a while. Maybe things will be better next time he wakes up.

Grounded by the warmth of his teammate’s steady hand on his shoulder, Trent lets himself drift out into the quiet.


	7. Ships That Pass in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another Clay-centered one-shot. It was written for #23 Bleeding Out, #24 Secret Injury & #27 Ransom.

As the armed men herd Sierra and the others into the echoing empty warehouse, all she can think is that this was supposed to be a _vacation._

She’s generally a homebody, cautious and fond of rules, so a trip to Mexico wouldn’t even normally be her thing. Her best friend Jacy talked her into coming, insisting it would be fun; suggesting that it might even give Sierra a chance to meet a cute boy, or girl, and stop being such a mopey forever-alone hermit.

Cliches were employed, _A ship in harbor is safe_ and all that bullshit, and in the end Sierra caved. Like she always does.

Jacy isn’t here, locked inside this squalid warehouse with half a dozen other terrified Americans in varying states of inebriation. She must have been one of the ones who reacted quickly and managed to hide in a corner or under a table for long enough to avoid getting hauled out of the club by the gunmen.

But Sierra? Sierra froze. That’s what she does when there’s danger; always has, ever since she was a child. Deer in the headlights. Stand still, be silent, and hope it passes you by.

Well, it didn’t. It fucking didn’t, and now she’s probably going to die or get sex trafficked or both, and she just wants to go _home._

After things calm down, there’s a lot of muffled sniffling and a little bit of quiet conversation. Everyone is scared to be too loud, not wanting to draw the attention of the armed guards just outside the door.

The others huddle close together like they think there’s safety in numbers, but Sierra’s skin itches with the urge to hide, to be alone. She finds a corner to crawl into. Normally she prefers closets when she’s scared, has since she was a kid, but there are no closets here, so the corner will have to do.

Back against the wall, Sierra draws her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and tries not to cry.

After a while, one of the other hostages apparently notices that Sierra has left the group. He comes over to check on her, moving slowly, keeping his hands visible. Thankfully he stays back far enough to avoid triggering a panic cascade. Just eases himself down to a sitting position a few feet away and says softly, “Hey. What’s your name?”

She swallows, or tries to; her mouth is still so dry that her lips stick to her teeth. Quiet and shaky, she responds, “Sierra.”

The man smiles at her. It’s a nice smile. He’s good-looking, the kind of guy Jacy would dismissively call _pretty boy,_ but then would flirt with anyway. That isn’t so much what Sierra notices, though. She notices the kindness in his eyes, the steady calm of his voice when he responds, “Hi, Sierra. I’m Clay. How you doing? You all right?”

She nods jerkily. “Yeah. I’m… They didn’t hurt me.”

_Yet,_ her brain adds. The resulting spike of terror stabs beneath her ribs, freezing the breath in her lungs.

“Good,” Clay says, bringing her focus back to him, pulling her mind away from worst-case scenarios for the moment. “That’s good.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “Listen, I know this is scary, but someone will come for us, okay? We’re not abandoned here. They’re already looking for us. I promise.”

There’s such a depth of certainty in his voice, like he would stake his soul on the truth of what he is saying. It doesn’t get rid of the gut-deep terror Sierra is feeling - not much short of actual rescue could do that right now - but it does ease it just a bit.

Clay shifts, drawing his knee up a bit and pressing his elbow to his side, and Sierra doesn’t miss the fleeting wince that crosses his face. Now it’s her turn to ask, “Are you okay?”

All visible traces of pain gone, he gives her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just had a little disagreement with one of those assholes. It’ll be fine.”

How the hell can this guy sound so casual? They’re being held hostage by armed gunmen, and he’s acting like it’s something that happens all the time. Like it’s just an average Tuesday. Sierra can’t decide whether she’s more grateful for the steadying presence, or annoyed that he’s capable of being so calm about this when she still feels like she’s 10 bad seconds away from collapsing into a full-blown panic attack.

“You should get some sleep if you can,” Clay suggests.

Sierra nods. The initial adrenaline rush has ebbed, leaving her shaky and exhausted. She isn’t sure she’ll actually be able to fall asleep under these circumstances, but should probably at least try.

The two or three hours that are left before dawn stretch into what feels like a very long night. Her new acquaintance falls asleep sitting up with little apparent effort, but Sierra’s neck aches, the concrete floor is hard, the artificial light coming in through the windows is too bright, and she’s hyper-aware of every tiny noise that could signal danger. By dawn, she’s bleary-eyed and so tired she can barely think.

Just after the sun rises, their captors return, throwing the warehouse door open with a clang. The one gunman who speaks English yells for everybody to get on their feet.

Heart racing, Sierra complies, the exhaustion swallowed up in a surge of pure terror.

It takes her a few seconds to realize that Clay is the only member of the group who hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the floor, back propped against a wooden crate. His eyes are closed.

“Clay,” she whisper-yells. _“Clay!”_

He doesn’t respond.

The gunmen are talking amongst themselves, not looking in Sierra’s direction. Oh so slowly, she shifts closer to Clay, trying to get a better angle to see what might be wrong with him.

When she spots the dark red, congealing puddle he’s sitting in, her heart sinks.

He lied to her. He’s hurt. Really hurt.

He’s been bleeding for _hours,_ and no one knew.

Based on the position he’s in, it looks like he tried to use his hand to put pressure on the wound, which might have even done some good - until he passed out.

One of the gunmen yells something in Spanish. Sierra jumps, her attention snapping back to the threat. She gets a sharp jolt of renewed fear when she sees that the captors are setting up a video camera.

Is this it? Is this the part where she and the others get horribly murdered on camera just to make some sort of threat or statement?

It takes her a minute to calm down enough to realize that the gunmen are now distributing sheets of paper to all the captives. Sierra moves forward to accept the page that gets brusquely shoved in her direction, and then she forces herself to look down at the words written on it.

It’s a ransom demand.

She knows it doesn’t guarantee anything, but relief weakens her knees anyway, because at least they aren’t all going to die _right now._ At least there’s still a chance; still time for someone to find them. Clay promised her that-

Shit. Clay.

She turns back just as one of the gunmen approaches him and kicks him hard in the thigh. 

To Sierra’s surprise, that actually wakes him up - sort of. He slides to the side and lets out a faint groan, and his eyelids flutter but don’t open. The gunman laughs nastily, kicks him again, exchanges words with one of the others, and then draws his pistol and aims it at the injured, helpless man on the floor.

Sierra freezes, her feet rooted to the concrete.

She’s about to watch someone die.

He was kind to her, and now they’re going to kill him, and she needs to _do something._

Her throat is sealed shut. She can’t make a single word come out of her mouth. She can’t even breathe.

“You can’t ransom him if he’s dead.”

The words come from one of the other hostages, a quiet older woman with dark, silvering hair. Sierra doesn’t remember hearing her say a single thing before now. There’s the faintest tremor of underlying fear in the woman’s voice, but she holds her ground, gazing steadily at the gunman who speaks English, who seems to be in charge here.

There’s a tense, silent moment, and then the leader huffs and barks out an order in Spanish. Looking disappointed, his lackey lowers the pistol, gives Clay one final kick and walks away, leaving him unconscious in a pool of blood.

Sierra doesn’t get long to process that, to feel the relief or the shame, because the gunmen drag her in front of the camera first.

It’s all she can do to keep from collapsing into hysterical sobs and just begging for someone, anyone, to come get her and take her home. She clings to the knowledge that her brother might see this, Jacy too, and she needs to stay calm for their sake. That lends her just enough strength to shakily read through the entire ransom demand, grammatical errors and all.

Once she’s done, the leader grabs her by the arm, hauls her over to Clay’s still form, and shoves her down next to him. One of the others brings over a plastic jug of water and a small pile of strips of white cloth.

The implication is clear: if they need him alive, then she’s supposed to keep him that way.

As the gunmen move back to supervise the rest of the ransom recordings, Sierra gets moving. The first step seems obvious, even to someone without much medical knowledge. She peels up Clay’s sticky black T-shirt, wincing at the sight of what appears to be a knife wound in his side. There’s a good chance the wound is dirty, but she figures washing it risks dislodging any clotting that might have happened, so instead she just wads up the cloth and presses down firmly on the seeping gash.

He reacts a little, letting out a faint whimper and trying to shift away, but the reaction doesn’t last long and there’s no real strength in it. If he’s this weak and out of it, then she figures the blood loss is probably nearing life-threatening by now.

Other than applying pressure, what else can she do? She took a first aid class as a teenager, but that’s been a few years ago now, and it was pretty basic to begin with.

_Calm down,_ Sierra tells herself. _Think through it._

How does blood loss kill people? She thinks she remembers the answer being shock, but what can she do to prevent that? A blood transfusion obviously isn’t going to happen right now, so that’s out.

Raising the legs! She remembers now. The instructor told them to raise the legs about 12 inches to increase circulation and help prevent shock. She glances around the mostly empty warehouse for something that could work. Her gaze lands on a box, but it’s a good distance away, and she doesn’t want to let up pressure for long enough to retrieve it.

Fortunately, that quandary is quickly solved when the older woman who saved Clay’s life finishes recording her ransom video and gets pushed in their direction. Keeping her eyes fixed on the wall behind them, she asks quietly, “Is there anything I can do?”

Sierra’s heart leaps with hope. “Are you a doctor, or a nurse or something?”

The woman shakes her head, presses her lips together. “I’m, uh, afraid not. In fact…” She sounds embarrassed. “I tend to pass out at the sight of blood.”

Sierra wilts a little. Well, that explains why she isn’t looking at them. “Actually, there is still something you can do. Bring me that box from over there. Please.”

Relieved, the woman hurries to comply. She brings the box over and manages get it situated and lift Clay’s legs onto it without looking directly at him or his injury or the puddle of drying blood surrounding him.

The older woman then sits down nearby, legs crossed, back very straight. “I’m Anne,” she offers after a moment.

“Nice to meet you, Anne. I’m Sierra.”

As soon as the words are out, Sierra almost laughs at the absurdity of them. _Nice to meet you._ It’s not, at all. What would be nice is both of them being back in their hotel rooms, safe. Or better yet, at home with their friends, their families.

She looks down at Clay’s still, pale face. His eyelashes flutter and he tries to mumble something, but his voice just trails off into nonsensical slurring.

Does he have someone back home waiting for him, wondering if he’s okay? He seems like the kind of person who should be loved by somebody.

After the ransom recordings have been completed, the gunmen pack up and leave, and time wears on.

Clay doesn’t die.

Sierra holds the pressure until she feels confident that the bleeding has stopped; then she ties the remaining long strips of cloth around his waist to hold the bandage in place. Gradually he starts to open his eyes more, focus on faces, try to talk. His first coherent word is “Water.” Sierra can’t remember whether you’re supposed to give fluids by mouth to someone who’s at risk of shock. No one else in the group seems to know either, or to want to make a decision either way, so Sierra finally relents and helps Clay drink some water, albeit not as much as he wants.

It’s just before dusk when the shooting starts.

Sierra freezes. Anne lunges at her and pulls her down flat on the floor beside Clay, using her arms to shield their heads. The firefight outside is violent but short-lived, and in its aftermath, there’s silence.

The door slams open. This time, the armed men who enter are wearing what looks like some sort of military gear.

The man in the lead spots the hostages cowering on the floor. “We’re U.S. military,” he calls. “We’re here to take you home.”

At the sound of the American-accented English, Sierra is flooded with a surge of relief that is nearly as paralyzing as the fear from before.

One of the other men starts searching through the captives, calling urgently in a distinct southern accent, “Clay? Spenser, you here?”

Sierra blinks in surprise. No chance that’s a coincidence. Shaking herself out of her stupor, she calls, “He’s over here.”

The man spins, rushes over and drops to his knees beside them. “Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Trent! Need you here, now!”

At the sound of the man’s voice, Clay winces, turns his head, and struggles until he manages to get his eyes all the way open. He smiles weakly. “Hey, Sonny.”

‘Sonny’ collapses back on his heels, all the air rushing out of him in a single sharp exhale. “Good _God,_ Clay,” he growls. “We thought... Do _not_ do that to us again.”

“Try not to,” Clay whispers, his eyelids drooping back to half-mast.

‘Trent,’ who is apparently some sort of medic, arrives. Sierra, Anne and Sonny move out of his way so he can work.

Sierra stares at the soggy, pitiful mass of lopsided bandaging covering the wound. Now that there’s an actual medic on the scene, she’s suddenly afraid that he’ll be angry, berate her for doing something wrong and making it worse, but he doesn’t say anything to her. All his focus is on his patient.

Sonny stays back, but he doesn’t seem to be able to pull his attention away from the man on the floor either.

“You know him?” Sierra asks tentatively.

Without looking at her, Sonny nods, clearing his throat. “You could say that. He’s our teammate.”

Well, that explains a lot. The calm; the focus; the pain tolerance. The certainty that someone would come for him. Pretty boy might not look it, but he’s military - and while Sierra doesn’t know all that much about the military, she’s guessing something pretty specialized and deadly.

“You helped him?” Sonny asks. Sierra realizes he is now looking at her hands, at the dried blood caked beneath her fingernails.

Feeling oddly guilty, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her dress. “Um,” she says. “I did what I could.”

Shame eats at her, because she doesn’t deserve credit. She froze. She would have let him die.

“This is Anne,” Sierra tells Sonny. “She saved Clay’s life. They- they were going to shoot him, and she talked them out of it.”

“Anne,” Sonny says softly. He reaches out for a handshake.

Anne nods at him. And then she says, “This is Sierra. She kept Clay from bleeding to death.”

Sonny smiles, a genuine smile that gentles his eyes. “Sierra.” Now the hand is aimed at her. She reaches out and shakes it as firmly as she can manage.

“Thank y’all. For being here for him,” Sonny says, with another glance down at his semiconscious teammate. He looks back up at the women and promises, “We’ll take good care of him.”

Sierra had wondered if the injured man had family, someone who loved him. That question got answered a lot more quickly than expected.

One of the other team members, a man with dark curly hair, gently touches Sierra’s arm to get her attention. “Ma’am,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

Sierra nods. One last glance back, and then she raises her chin, squares her shoulders, and walks out into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that’s left now is the Jason chapter.


	8. Bright and Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the Jason-focused chapter, written for prompts #11 Stitches & #16 Pinned Down.

Jason just wants to sleep, but the rain keeps dripping on his face.

When he opens his eyes, all he sees is a blur of green. He blinks, squinting against the rain, and the blur resolves into a tangle of vines and leaves, their shapes distorted and refracted by the spiderweb of fractured glass he’s looking at them through.

Lying on his side, shoulder propped against something hard, he stares for a while. His head aches. Even the soft sound of raindrops tapping on metal seems loud, reverberating in his ears. He doesn’t hear anything else. No shooting or screaming. No one calling his name. Needing anything from him.

Honestly, it’s kind of nice.

He closes his eyes.

It’s the pain that brings him back; not the vague, fuzzy ache in his forehead and temple, but a sudden sharp stab in his thigh. He contorts, trying to reach down, to find the bullet or the shrapnel, but his hand meets a wall of twisted metal. Alarmed, Jason tries to pull his leg free. No dice. It’s completely pinned.

What the hell happened?

He’s… somewhere. Somewhere with metal and rain and shattered glass.

Jason forces his eyes back open and finally fully registers what he’s seeing. The crumpled steering wheel, broken windshield.

He crashed his damn truck.

Was anyone with him when he did?

He has a sudden flashbulb memory, an image of Alana riding in the passenger seat, face turned toward him, laughing while rolling her eyes, the way she always does when he’s said some dumb thing that she can’t help but find a little funny. She’s beautiful, her hair backlit by sunlight.

Terror burning sharper than the pain, Jason twists to look. The passenger seat sits silent and empty.

He can’t remember. Where Alana is. Where he last saw her. But she’s not here trapped and injured like him, and that’s good, right? She’s probably at home with the kids. Maybe already worrying about him.

Jason breathes, forces himself to focus, reminds himself that this could be a lot worse. Besides the probable concussion and whatever’s going on with his leg, he doesn’t think he’s too badly injured. Just needs to figure a way out of here.

Doesn’t take long to become clear that that’s probably not gonna happen. He’s completely pinned, unable to move either leg or even get his seat belt off. Based on the fact that he doesn’t hear any traffic over the gentle patter of rain, and that no one has found him yet, he’s guessing his truck is probably not visible from whatever road he was on.

Bottom line? Jason isn’t getting out of this alone. He needs help.

Finally, a lot later than he should, he remembers his phone. With effort, he contorts enough to get his hand into his pocket and pull it out. The screen shows a weak signal, a single bar that occasionally goes up to two, then back down.

It’ll have to be enough. He calls 911.

The connection glitches in and out, and Jason struggles to corral his scattered thoughts into anything coherent, but he manages to communicate what happened and get confirmation that an ambulance is on its way before the call drops.

Maybe he should call back, make absolutely sure that they were able to track his location, but he doesn’t. He calls Ray instead.

_“Hey, Jace,”_ his best friend says. Upon not receiving a response, Ray adds, his tone sharpening a bit, _“Jason? You there?”_

“Yeah,” Jason mumbles. “Yeah, I’m...” He trails off. “Kinda crashed my truck.”

_“Damn,”_ Ray breathes. _“You okay?”_

“They sent... sending an ambulance.” Jason’s head hurts, and his leg has started throbbing again. He feels desperately tired.

_“Where are you?”_ Ray asks tightly.

“Don’t know,” Jason admits, letting his head droop against the twisted door frame. It isn’t until Ray barks his name that he realizes he’s been drifting. “Huh?” he mumbles.

_“Look, I’m calling this in, okay? I’m gonna give you to Naima. Stay awake,”_ Ray orders in a tone that permits no argument.

Jason thinks, _You’re not the boss of me._ He says, “Mm.”

_“Hey, Jason.”_ Naima’s voice is calm and steady and warm. _“How are you doing? Does anything hurt?”_

“Head’s kind of...” He loses his train of thought. “Something with my leg. It’s pinned.”

_“Okay. Is it hard to breathe?”_

He thinks about that. “No.”

_“Good,”_ she says, soft and reassuring. _“That’s good. Can you tell if you’re bleeding anywhere?”_

“No,” he says, then clarifies, “I can’t tell. Leg, maybe.”

_“Okay. Somebody will get to you soon, all right? You’ve just got to hang in there for a little longer.”_

For some reason he doesn’t understand, her gentle voice makes tears burn the corners of his eyes. “Hey, Naima,” he says. “Do... do you know where Alana is? Right now?”

On the other end of the line, Naima draws a measured breath, but doesn’t respond right away. She says something to Ray, too muffled for Jason to hear, like she’s covering the phone with her hand. Then she comes back on and responds evenly, _“Yes. But we’re worried about you right now, okay? You need to stay awake and keep talking to me.”_

There’s something strange beneath the steadiness of Naima’s voice. He can’t place it. Something’s... there’s something wrong, and he’s forgetting it.

Why did he call Ray instead of Alana? Why was that his first instinct?

He doesn’t want to think about this. He’s too tired. He doesn’t want to know.

_“Jason, stay awake,”_ Naima orders.

Defiantly, Jason passes out.

He wakes up in the hospital with 27 stitches in his leg and a brutal headache. The first thing he remembers, clear as crystal, is collapsing in a hallway after a surgeon told him his wife was dead. He knows the memory is old, but it’s so vivid that the resulting grief crushes his chest, bordering on panic.

He forgot. How could he have forgotten?

“Hey. Jace, hey. You’re all right.” Ray puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Do you remember what happened?”

He blows out a breath, trying to will his heart to slow down, his lungs to work. “Yeah.” His voice comes out rusty and weak, so he clears his throat. “Yeah. I remember everything.”

Ray meets his gaze, and Jason can tell he understands. He nods, eyes soft and sad, and says quietly, “Sorry.”

Jason glances away. “It’s okay,” he lies. “Life goes on, right? Gotta move forward.”

Ray’s eyebrows furrow, but he lets it pass, maybe judging that now isn’t the time. “You banged yourself up pretty good, brother, but you should be just fine in a few weeks. The guys would like to drop by, if you feel up for some company.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Distraction is good. Distraction and brotherhood. Anything to help him find his way back to focusing on what he has, not what he’s lost.

_Alana in the passenger seat, backlit, laughing._

She’s gone. There’s no way back to her now. There never will be.

Jason closes his eyes. He breathes in, out.

And he goes forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for Whumptober! Thanks for reading!
> 
> One small, non-spoilery note about tonight’s episode: I’d just like to point out that I gave Brock the nickname “Broccoli” in _All the Ashes_ before he had it in the actual show. I know, I know, it’s a fairly obvious nickname, but I’m still a little proud of myself.


End file.
